


Mystery on the Henrietta Express

by mvsic_bxxks_stvdy



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Mystery, train
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 17:05:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19114030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mvsic_bxxks_stvdy/pseuds/mvsic_bxxks_stvdy
Summary: Detective Richard "Dick" Gansey III did not board the train expecting to solve a mystery, yet somehow he found himself in the middle of one. His suspects - Lynch, Parrish, Czerny, Cheng, and the mysterious "Jane" - all seem to be hiding something. The case must be solved before they arrive, and Dick must do what he can to avoid a second murder.





	Mystery on the Henrietta Express

Richard “Dick” Campbell Gansey III found himself in the doorway to the train car, fountain pen balanced in one hand and notebook crooked against his other arm and pipe between his teeth, surveying the sorry scene before him.

Here were his suspects – five of them. All of them were busy not looking at him or each other or the centrepiece of the scene. All except one, staring right at him – one who he recognized on the spot.

“Ronan Lynch.”

Ronan did not reply, at least not verbally. Instead he sneered in greeting, his hands in the pockets of the dark, wide cuffed trousers he wore with a deep mahogany vest. His dark curls were longer than they had been when Dick had seen him last, and the look gave him a wildness that suited him but chilled his old friend. Though he had recognized him, he did not _recognize_ him. There was something new and cruel in the way the man held himself. Dick knew he would need to remember that.

Dick’s eyes flicked to the figure next to Ronan, a person considerably shorter than him – as most were. It was a woman. Oh, and what a woman, Dick thought before he could stop himself. She was beautiful, everything about her, from her boyish and messy bob to the delicately beaded flats on her feet. Between that was a dress – oh, and what a dress – emerald green with thin straps over the shoulders and ending shockingly high on her thighs. The trim of it was emerald beads, such a multitude of them that they shushed against each other as she shifted. More beads adorned her neck and chest, long strands of pearls dripping off her like raindrops. He raised his eyes back to meet hers again, but she was still avoiding looking at him.

“Ma’am, may I ask your name?” He ventured, poising his pen over the page of his notebook.

“Jane.” She said, voice willowy. She touched her cheek as she said it, then her lips. Even without the tell he would have known it was a lie. _Jane_. Of course, it was not an uncommon name, but everything about the way she said it and the lack of an offered surname painted this as a lie. He did not challenge her, simply jotting down ‘Jane – alias’ and proceeding.

The next man before him was also recognizable, though it took Dick a moment. He had seen this face on the papers, all the papers, only weeks before. Brilliant inventor and newly made millionaire, Adam Parrish. A genius by all accounts. In person he seemed smaller than he had in the grainy photographs adorning the front pages. Though he stood with a straight back and squared shoulders, he had no meat on his bones. Even his well tailored suit, which must have been a recent acquisition given his recent change of fortune, made him look small. It was a colour a bit too close to his hair, a bit too close to his skin, all of it dusty and washed out. He stood in the light of the window, and in the brightness, his eyebrows were nearly invisible. He looked entirely expressionless.

“Adam Parrish?” Dick asked.

Adam nodded once. He was having the hardest time not looking at the ground between the group and the detective.

Dick moved on. Here was another washed out character. Unlike the rest he was seated, heavily resting against the arm of one of the sturdy bolted down train armchairs. He looked a bit faint, his eyes affixed on the ceiling. He wore a grey sweater that looked badly as if it needed a wash, just as his hair badly needed a comb and his face badly needed a scrubbing. Dick could not fathom who this man could be.

“Excuse me, sir?” Dick asked. Without meaning to his voice had gone softer. There was something about this man that instantly inspired sympathy. “Sir, can I get your name?”

The man – boy, maybe? He looked so young – turned his attention to Dick finally. He looked frightened. “…Noah Czerny.” He contributed softly. Dick felt he had been right to speak gently, for this creature looked as if a strong tone would shatter him and blow him away.

“Thank you, Noah.” Dick said. The Czerny name he knew, though not as well as the Lynch one. Both were new money.

He looked at the last member of the strange group. Possibly the strangest member. Not because of his origin – Dick was intrigued but not surprised, he had been all over the world and met many people from many places. No, the reason this man seemed strange was because he was smiling, as if this was a cheerful moment, and rocking on the balls of his feet. When Dick looked at him, the man looked back, and extended a hand. “Richard Gansey. I am a fan of yours. The name is Henry Cheng.”

Dick was taken aback, but he shook. “A fan of my what?” He asked.

“Why, your fantastic mind!” Henry replied. “You have cracked cases that would leave the lesser man stranded without a lead. You are extraordinary!”

Dick was surprised and a little unsettled by the overenthusiastic show of support. This was not exactly the kind of place he wanted to meet someone who knew his work intimately. “Thank you.” He said awkwardly.

Now there was only one place left to cast his gaze, the place that Adam was staring at intently now. Dick couldn’t blame him – the pool of blood was still spreading, and in a few inches, it would be wetting the tips of Adam’s fine new shoes. Even so he seemed rooted to the spot.

Dick sighed.

Because the face of the victim was also recognizable in an instant, despite the damage that had been done with some blunt instrument. The handsome jaw. The dark curls. The blue eye.

“Declan Lynch.” Dick greeted finally.

Declan did not reply. He was, of course, dead.

 


End file.
